John Walker's Electronic House

There are regions of Chicago for which I am not nearly hip enough. I have been introduced to them by those who qualify, and then have naughtily snuck back to enjoy their wares privately, despite falling woefully short of the requirements.

One such place is a coffee shop in Wicker Park (well, let’s face it, the whole of Wicker Park is somewhere I shouldn’t really be) called Earwax. See, by name alone it should be obvious to any that someone of my nature – not geek enough, not cool enough, not street enough, not skater enough, not smart enough, nor dumb enough to fit into any appropriate niche – should be keeping well away. Of course, I want to visit such a place. And not because it’s hip – that, if anything, makes me feel uncomfortable. I want to visit it for it’s peculiar combination of dingy lighting and brightly coloured furniture, the generous service and the decent food and drink. I like that it’s so odd-looking, but it’s that very odd-looking-ness that renders it hip beyond my means.

As I sit facing the open front of the store, watching the sort of people walking past who really ought to be in such an area, I notice that the music playing is Devendra Banhart. I’ve not heard this particular album (but since he releases about five a day, that’s not too surprising), and I concoct the plan that I could ask my extremely hip waitress whether this is Devendra Banhart. I’d be slightly unsure, and she’d say, “Yes! It is! You recognised Devendra Banhart, who is a hip singer, and as such are now welcomed into our fold as one of the Hip People.” She would then tell the other staff that I was now to be recognised as hip, and I would presumably receive some sort of appropriate in-house discount.

Another member of the staff put out some napkins on a table near mine. I looked at him, then back at my book, then back at him again certain that something was wrong.

This man was no more hip than I. If anything, he was more plain, more implanted in the background than I could claim – how could he possibly have the sheer cheek to have a job here? Here in Earwax, in Wicker Park?

And then I realised. This man – this genius – was beyond anything my simple mind could grasp. His presentation, his lack of hip, was a carefully cultivated style, perfected over years, until he had reached this zenith of an anti-hip appearance. He was, by far, the most hip man in the area. He was their king.

I didn’t ask about the music, but instead paid my bill and left.

I’m on a television set.

That’s not strictly true, in as much as it’s a lie. I’m in a Chicago high school, sat in the corner of the room while Kim teaches an English class. And yet, I feel as though I’m on a television set.

You would think that there would be enough in common between schooling across the Atlantic that a classroom would feel like a classroom, but despite all the commonalities, there’s still something completely distinctive, alien even, about the American High School Experience.

Long, stretching corridors lined with tall, thin lockers are set dressings for a high school drama, rather than objects appearing anywhere in real life. There’s school, and then there’s pretend American school from off of the telly. To step inside this doesn’t shatter the mythology and reveal it as reality, but rather absorb you into the mythology itself.

Somewhere, between the bells ringing and the class immediately leaping out from behind their individual desks while the teacher shouts last minute instructions over the ruckas, and loud intercom buzzers preceding drawled announcements for such-and-such to go to the principal’s office, there has to be a blonde teenage private investigator solving intricate crimes, and a floppy-shirted disgruntled girl dying her hair red and lusting after Jordan Catalano. It’s certain that the unnaturally giant fifteen year old boys strolling on their way to football practise will be taking part in a game against the local rivals which they will be losing until the final few minutes, when their grumpy, overweight coach comes up with a new tactic that’s so crazy it just might work.

The class banter, lively and impressively funny, is surely scripted. They are the cleverly constructed lines from a writer who later plans for their wit to be used in the face of surly vampires or young superheroes. And which of these students are going to meet grisly and unpleasant deaths at the blade of a cloaked, crazed and perhaps supernatural killer?

How peculiar for this cast of extras to be seemingly unaware of their Truman-like existence, believing themselves to be studying here for a reason, seeing their existence reaching college, and then even regular adult life, rather than the early cancellation that inevitably awaits. Or perhaps these will be the lucky ones, seeing their stereotyped roles re-realised in a college setting, with even their principal coming along to run a local bar.

I’m off to the capital city of America, Chicago, to check on my royal grounds.

I’ll be back a week Friday, but completely available by email.

If I owe you work, QUICK! Look over there! For quite a long time!

Does anyone know why the BBC News website is so focused on Bollywood?

Today one of the top three biggest stories in the world, on the front page, is apparently a story about two Bollywood actors getting married.

Am I completely out of touch, and Bollywood has become a massive deal in the UK, bigger than Hollywood?

Or is there something more peculiar going on? Does the BBC hugely invest in the Indian film industry?

I don’t care either way, resigned as I am that stories about Madonna adopting Angelina will be considered important enough to reach the front page, and so it might as well do the same for any film industry of any country. But the Bollywood theme is recurring, while French, Australian, Italian etc industries are all but ignored, and I’m intrigued to know why.

I’m concerned that we need a new world war. The WW2 fatigue in gaming is unavoidable. So much so that even at Midway’s hands-on event for Hour of Victory, the presentation began with a defence for why another Second World War shooter was necessary, before we were even told what this one was about. And while they argue effectively that there’s still room in the market, surely this can only be for a limited amount of time. What are they going to make all the videogames about in fifty years time? For the sake of the industry, we have to start nuking each other.

Today I have been a mummy bird.

This morning, rather unpleasantly, Dexter brought in a finch chick.

I came in after hearing the screams, saw it sprawling on its back and feared the worst, imploring Dex to just kill it and get it over with. (Why a photo? Craig suggested I take one, so I did). Dex I think was just as surprised by it all as me, and just aimlessly batted at it with his paw, wondering why it was being a less entertaining play companion all of a sudden.

Dragging the cat off it, and informing him that he was a “VERY BAD CAT”, I scooped up the bird into an empty tissue box, and began the awkward thinking on how I was going to kill the poor thing. Getting it up the right way, however, seemed to suggest that there had been very little harm done. Dex still only has his baby teeth, and appeared to carry it in very gently. But I figured, it’s a very young bird despite having fledged, and it’s pretty much going to die whichever option I pick.

My pussy way out was going to be to take it down to the allotments near my house and let nature’s winner eat it for dinner. I’m quite pragmatic about this sort of thing, and have no problem with cute baby anythings getting eaten by hungry grown up anything elses. But then speaking with my bird-loving mum, she suggested that I ring the vet and see if they have a contact. They did, and after a series of phonecalls, I spoke to a lady who apparently rescues birds like this all the time. What an excellent lady. She said I should drip water on top of its beak, which it would then hopefully take in as it flowed down, and that she’d ring me back later to let me know when she could come over.

The water dripping worked, and in fact Birdie began opening its mouth at me like a chick in a cartoon. Gaping, I learned this is called. When the lady phoned back to let me know she wouldn’t be able to come until tomorrow morning, we agreed it unlikely that it live that long, but she was pleased to hear about the gaping. She said, “If it’s opening its mouth, you should probably put something in it.” And after a run-down of the cereal in the house, she suggested mashing up some Wheetabix with warm water, and seeing if he’d eat that.

After some experiments with a syringe and teaspoon and a lot of spilt Wheetabix, I noticed that the gaping started whenever my finger went near. It was worth a shot. I loaded my little finger up with goo, and went toward the beak which was suddenly flung open. Lots of nipping at my fingers later and a decent amount seemed to have gone down.

Later in the evening, and all looked lost. It was keeping its eyes shut, and refusing to swallow the water drips. Ready to just leave it to quietly die in the cat box (temporarily its home), I then spotted some sneaky swallowing out of the corner of my eye. A few more drips, and we were back in action, and then eating Wheetabix again.

I’ve now mastered the art. Filling the syringe with the mushy Bix, but teasing the beak open with my little finger, then squirting it gently in. Gobble gobble gobble, more please.

So we shall see if it lasts the night. I should be passing it on around 9am if it lives, and so think I’ll give it one more feed at about 4am. Which means I’m now dedicating ridiculous energy to an animal I was quite happy to feed to the foxes. I’ve realised after three feeds that I’m now going to be sad if it does die, which is annoying.

Every now and then my job affords me the opportunity to promote a great game that no one’s heard of. Thanks to Stu forcing me to play it, one recently was Slither Link. It’s the first game I’ve ever given 10/10 in nine years of the job (I’ve only ever given two games 90% or higher, and one of those was, well, let’s not talk about it – it was eight years ago). And now, having a look at Play Asia’s DS front page, I see that the formerly obscure, unknown game is now on their “bestsellers” list.

I feel proud.

Possibly the best example of what is so wrong with Corner Shop 2 would be the bowling alley. Available in the second clutch of buildings to buy, your task is not to enjoy a sweet bowling mini-game, but rather to stand the pins back up and roll the balls back toward the customer after their goes. It’s from this menial angle that potential fun is approached throughout. It’s a bit like an FPS where you have to clean up the dead bodies and mop the floors after the NPC hero has blasted his way through the corridor. You watch the mad-faced cartoon blobs excitedly throwing the ball at the pins, probably with a speech bubble saying something utterly bonkers like, “If I hit this, I’ll ask out Mai!” and then tidy up afterward. I sure hope he was having fun.

‘My last words? “Life is no way to treat an animal, not even a mouse.”‘

Here’s the latest:

Went to Austria. Saw castles and mountains and birdies.

Played in the garden with the cat.

Watched baseball!